


Catoptrophobia

by Maharetchan



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Dissociation, Disturbing Themes, Ghosts, Horror, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Murder, Nightmares, Platonic Relationships, Supernatural Elements, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maharetchan/pseuds/Maharetchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious and invisible killer is hunting in Baltimore. And Will Graham finds himself doubting his perception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catoptrophobia

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The idea came to me noticing the lack of supernatural-inspired stories where Will struggles with his perception and emphaty because of it. So I tried to write one.  
> 2\. The title means "fear of mirrors".  
> 3\. I have a tumblr ([samiferist](http://samiferist.tumblr.com/) ) so feel free to message me there if you feel like. I'd love it! ^^  
> 4\. My first language is not English and I don't have an English beta reader. So please excuse the grammar mistakes that you'll probably find.  
> 5\. I love comments!

The girl in the bathtub opened her eyes for the last time.

They were the only part of her body she could move and seeing was the only thing she could do: she was paralyzed and slowly decaying in the cold water, becoming more and more a dead thing, losing the little life she had still left.

She could not feel the chilling breath of the wind on her face, nor the icy water against her skin: her mind was blissfully empty, already clouded by the shroud of death: and yet, she could still see.

The water she was immersed into was red with the blood that was still dripping from her wrists, little drops that fell down with a soft sound she could barely hear: there were ropes around them, placed carefully not to stop the flow and those too were red like the water.

Red like her hair, that she could see floating around her just out of the corner of her eye.

Everything was covered in ice, a glimmering blanket that sparkled like diamonds in the pale moonlight that filtered through the broken window.

Rubies and diamonds and stars all around her.

She knew she was dying, but she was not afraid, not anymore: the light was becoming stronger, surrounding her, blessing her with those bright jewels, gifting them to her like she was the princess of one of those old stories her father used to tell her when she was a child.

Her heart clenched painfully for a moment at that thought: her tired, weary heart that was beating slower and slower, remembered him and sent the only fit of pain she was going to feel through her body; she felt sorry for her old dad, for leaving him alone, for dying like this...

But it could not be helped, she thought, this is the way it has to be. He told me that, he told me that this was the way to finally find peace... the right way... the only way.

And the jewels were so pretty... she wanted to take them in her hands, reach out, but she could not move...

Her eyes were heavy: she wanted to close them and rest, sleep forever.

But as she was finally abandoning her mortal body, in her last moment of consciousness, she caught the glimpse of a movement on her left, a quick shadow moving and coming near: she tried to hear its steps on the filthy pavements, but nothing but the howl of the wind was around her...

But the shadow had been there, she was sure... she...

For a moment, she was afraid, she regretted everything, wanted to cry out and go back home...

But it was too late.

The shadows was getting closer, filling her vision, making everything of a deep and solid black...

The girl in the bathtub closed her eyes for the last time.

 

Will Graham takes a deep breath of chilly and icy air, filling his lungs to the point of pain, keeping it in and then slowly letting it out.

Around him, there's the deep silence of death, the faint whispering of the wind blowing, the aseptic cold that covers the scent of blood and dirt. 

He remains absolutely still in the middle of the room, next to the bathtub, tries to catch the last glimpses of his trance, to see more, to go deeper inside the nightmares and the secrets hidden there, in the dark corners of his mind and of the mind of the killer.

But there are shadows that strangle his efforts, that suffocate his empathy until he's struggling to breathe, until he starts to feel his mind affected by an hypoxia that is only in his head, because he can feel the air going in and out of his lungs and still... still the pain is as real as his body...

Will Graham opens his eyes because there's nothing left to see.

He tastes blood in his mouth.

 

\-----

Dinner at Hannibal's always feels unnaturally and extremely formal to Will, but still, he thinks while he stares at the food in his plate, it's better than the depressing isolation of Wolf's Trap, of the deafening lack of sound that goes on and on for miles and miles around him and his little house.

Here, at least, he's not alone and there's a pleasant atmosphere of warmth that spreads its hands all around him. Even when they don't say anything, Will feels good.

“Did they give you the suicides case?”

Abigail's voice has a curious and almost cheerful note that should worry him and that doesn't for reasons that do not escape his mind, but that he doesn't want to acknowledge: the girl takes another bite of her food and looks at him expectantly.

Will tries not to think about the dead, young and pale body he saw floating in red bloodied water today, tries not to associate it with the living girl in front of him. He drinks a sip of wine and sighs, turning his head to look at Hannibal: the man is staring at Abigail with a disapproving frown that speaks volumes about how he feels about bringing his work to the dinner table.

He chooses to simply nod absently, hoping Abigail will drop the subject and pays attention again to the food that is still mostly untouched: the brown meat of the sausages and the pale yellow of the potatoes make his stomach clench in hunger and he takes a small bite, chewing for a long time, trying to remember the name of the dish and what kind of meat it is...

Pork, of course it's pork, what else could it be, his mind tells him, suppressing the chill that runs along his spine.

“Was is it really horrible? They said they found the cadaver immersed in blood...”

“Abigail, I do not think this is the best conversation topic to bring up during dinner. And I am sure Will is far too tired to share gruesome details with us.”

His face is chiseled in stone, carved in marble like a statue by Bernini, making all the emotions he wants to show appear on the outside, keeping everything else buried deep inside of him. Will has to close his eyes for a moment and force himself to suppress the hysterical laugh that threatens to erupt from his lips.

He's tired, too tired, keeps eating the food in his plate, keeps looking at the two people sitting there with him, feels a bond running between then that he tries not to look at too closely, fearing to see how much it'll resemble a hangman's knot.

“I've seen worst. But yeah, it wasn't very pleasant.”

Sometimes his voice doesn't sound like his anymore to his ears.

Abigail looks guilty for a moment, like she's regretting talking about this: but in her eyes there's a light of morbid interest that makes his mouth go suddenly dry.

Hannibal distracts her by bringing up some trivial and uninteresting facts about one of his acquaintances, and the room fills with her crystalline laugh, it resonates through the expensive glasses and plates. Will welcomes the distraction and tries to relax, his back against the back of the chair, feeling the hard wood digging into his flesh.

He closes his eyes again for a moment and is almost afraid sleep may overpower him, making him fall asleep right there. He wonders what Hannibal would do, wonders what face he'd make.

Sometimes Will looks at the two of them and could swear to feel the fires of Hell lapping at his feet.

 

He and Abigail manage to spend some time alone after dinner in the drawing room while Hannibal does the dishes; he always asks if he can help and is always told not to worry about it.

The girl hovers over him with a sparkle of danger in her blue eyes, ogling him like she's wondering how to make him talk, but remain subtle about it at the same time; Will stares at the amber color of whiskey in his glass and wonders if it'd feel any different to drown in it instead of water.

“You look tired.”

She stands in front of him, her back to the crackling fireplace, and runs her fingers through his hair for a moment, before going to sit next to him on the couch.

“I just need some sleep.”

“How did they find out that they were not suicides or accidents?”

Abigail can jump from one subject to another with the consummated ease of an actress; she picks up Hannibal's skills along the way and makes them hers with an ability that is almost unsettling.

“The girl in the last case was tied up, so were the other victims, but this time it was a detail not even the most incompetent cop could ignore. And this crime scene was... staged so perfectly. She couldn't have done it herself.”

A long pause.

“I shouldn't talk about this with you.”

Abigail just smiles indulgently and refills his glass quietly. Will sighs and rubs his eyes until they hurt.

“Something really bothered you about this crime scene, didn't it?”

“They all bother me.”

“But this one was different, right? I can tell when it's a really bad one, we both can. That's why we feel like we have to take even more care of you.”

He gives up the fight, because against her, he can never win: because he still feels her blood on his fingers sometimes, remembers the way she gasped for air while dying on the floor of her own house, can still taste copper and gunpowder in his mouth. Her eyes don't have that accusatory look they used to bear against him anymore, they lost it a long time ago and replaced it with a worry and a care that is just like how a dear friend would look at you.

Will doesn't know when things changed so much, can't tell when she stopped resenting him and started taking care of him.

“I couldn't see the killer, or his design. It was blurred, confused, but not in any usual way. It felt like he wasn't there, like he was... only a shadow in the background. And there were no evidences of another person being in the building other than the victim.”

Abigail sighs at his side and he can't bear to look at her, because he still has a guilt on his shoulders that weights him down and tears him apart.

“Could you see my dad's design?”

“You never asked me about this before...”

“Maybe I just never thought about it.”

Will wonders why she is now before he can stop himself.

“Your father was easy to see. He killed for love and ate his victims for desperation and guilt, to erase what he had done somehow. This killer... this killer doesn't exist, he's absent. His crimes don't speak for him. They are like paintings that have been damaged by the rain: you can't distinguish anything on them anymore, they're just shells of what they used to be.”

Abigail nods and then takes his hand, holding it between hers: she's so warm, so alive, it chases away the cold memory of the dead girl in the water.

“When you saw his design, you understood him. That's how you caught him.”

She nods to herself and holds his hand a bit harder, almost scratching it with her little nails. Abigail has the soft beauty of a flower still not completely in blossom, but that is slowly getting there and that will be beautiful when it will. He focuses on the shape of her shoulders, on the expression on her face and tries to forget.

There a kind of peace that comes with being with Hannibal and Abigail that Will wishes he could stop longing for, a blessed oblivion that heals the wounds of his soul and soothes his loneliness. He can't even admit to himself how deep the crippling affection he has for them is, because it'd make it real, and is still not ready for that.

“You'll see this killer too and catch him. I'm sure of it.”

Will smiles at her and lets out a shaky breath that sounds like a dying whisper.

 

His room in Hannibal's house gives him the feeling of growing more and more comfortable every time he stays over to sleep there, sinking between the soft pillows that surround him completely, giving him a strange sense of security. There are his clothes in the drawers of the wardrobe, his personal objects in the small private bathroom: it's almost a second home.

Will relaxes and closes his eyes, his glasses resting on the nightstand, his body already half way through the process of falling asleep. He surrounds himself with warmth and softness to chase away the nightmares, to forget the horror that worked his way inside him at the crime scene.

One last time, he tries to slip into the mind of his killer, to catch glimpses of him, of his design, of what he really wants.

But there nothing, only a darkness, an absence, negative space stretching his icy hands and keeping him away: he feels chills through his body, shivers and bites his lips, tries to go on, to see more, but Will feels almost immersed in pitch, strangles by its sticky thickness.

And still, no matter how hard he tries, he can't see anything, he can't feel the man he's looking for, can't fight against a ghost... he's tired, so tired---

“Do you need anything, Will?”

Hannibal is on the doorstep, still wearing his expensive shirt and trousers, looking pristine no matter how late it may be; he's breathing fast and can feel sweat on his face.

“Forgive me, I had no intention of startling you.”

Will shakes his head and keeps trying to focus on the reality around him. After a couple of deep breaths, he can talk.

“No, thank you, I don't need anything.”

The man steps into the room and sits on the bed next to him, looking at him with those rich, comforting brown eyes that hide... that hide what? Will doesn't want to answer that question.

“You look distressed. Perhaps I could prepare you a calming infusion.”

Will shakes his head and tries to smile, sinking back against the pillows. They stare at each other and Hannibal returns the smile: sometimes he wants to be afraid of him, of what lurks in the hidden corners of his courtesy, but he never felt as good as he feels when he's close.

“I'm fine. I just need to sleep.”

“This case seems to be taking a toll on you already.”

“They all do, I'll be fine.”

You know, you know far too well how much these cases get under my skin, how deep they cut; he struggles with the words, but suffocates them in the end, not even bearing to let them out and to hear his voice sound weak and defeated before the fight has even begun.

He sees himself from the outside, reflected in Hannibal's mind and can examine the way pity and curiosity mix in the other man, constantly trying to determine where Will's breaking point is, maybe to be there to put the pieces back together or to just hover over him and enjoy the unusual spectacle. He can never tell exactly what the man is thinking, he's left surrounded by the darkness and it gives him the uncomfortable feeling of being lost.

And yet, he can see a soft sparkle far away, something warm that feels like affection, like a bundle of feelings he doesn't know how to call or how to define them. But he knows that they are a comfort. 

Will would like to trust him completely, to put into words what is weighting on his soul, but the moment is not right. And he's so tired.

But Hannibal is a patient man, who works carefully and slowly to get what he wants: he knows very well how to make Will open up to him, but he also knows when to respectfully leave him alone: nobody ever did that to him, nobody ever waited for him to be ready to talk or act. But he does and the gratitude he feels overshadows everything else.

“If you need anything, I'll be in my room...”

“Are you worried about me?”

The man looks at him like he wants to touch him, to caress his cheek, pull his hair or force him into a kiss; Will can't tell, his eyes are unreadable turbid pools and he's at loss.

“I worry about you constantly, Will.”

And, even thought he shouldn't, Will believes him.

\-----

Jack would like to have him constantly at work, breaking his head on the case until it's solved, and gives him weird looks of disappointment when Will has to admit that he simply has no idea what kind of killer they are dealing with and how to find out.

He stares at the body of the dead girl on the autopsy table, at her transparent and ethereal looking skin, at her red hair that are the only color that breaks that suffocating whiteness; he tries not to imagine Abigail in her place, but the association is stronger than his forts, spreads into his mind like poison.

They are all looking at him, waiting, hoping to get answers: they have four cadavers already and are in no way close to catch their killer.

Will can only see shadows in his design, an absence, a black hole that erases the presence of the perpetrator, that confounds the turbid waters he's drowning into.

Jack doesn't yell at him, but his eyes are empty and gelid, and his voice as a note of threat that doesn't escape him: after all, he's used to it, to feel inadequate, judged and used.

They need answers, fast. The killer will not stop, not now that he knows the FBI found out about him: he has a mission, that much Will can see, he's not done, will probably start working even faster than before.

There's a path in front of them, hidden behind tall, dark trees that don't allow him to see.

He needs to get closer, much closer, but he's afraid of what he could see and find at the end of the dark and mysterious tunnel that stretches out with him right on its doorstep: because this killer doesn't feel right to him, he doesn't... feel human somehow.

The darkness that exudes from him is overwhelming, it makes him fear for his own sanity again, like when he was sick, but this time even more, because he fears he'll lose himself and never be able to go back to what he was before. And there's no one he can tell, not yet at least, not when there's still so much confusion in his mind.

There are times, at night, when Will opens his eyes and is sure something is moving in the shadows of his room: he breathes fast, looks around like a trapped beast trying to find a way out and feel the same fear the girl in the bathtub felt before dying.

The deep feeling of knowing he's not alone, but not being able to see anything different; his dogs are quiet too, dozing off all around his bed, while he feels a new anxiety gripping his heart and leaving him desperate for something to happen and break the tension in the room.

Nothing ever does, the house remains quiet. Will can hear himself breathing and his own brain working fast.

Every time, he manages to fall asleep after a while, after the loud heartbeat calms down in his chest: but his dreams are filled with nightmares more disturbing than the one he usually has: there's a presence around him that he cannot see, but that stalks him, making him feel its breath on his neck...

He sees dead girls that look like Abigail bleeding out, their body like crystal, their blood shining like rubies, their black hair punctured by ice and snow... and their eyes are empty and lifeless...

So he starts spending more and more time at Hannibal's, staying over for the night, working in the little study the man put at his disposal: he sleeps a little better when he knows there are other people around him, and the house in Baltimore has nothing of the creepy atmosphere of Wolf's Trap.

Abigail makes him tea every night, something to help him rest, she says. Hannibal reads to them, or only to him, sometimes during the long, winter evenings. His voice slides over his body and drips into his soul; when he touches him, Will leans into it, allows the pressure to make him feel alive and present: it's never more than a hand on his shoulder or his arm or his neck, nothing more that a quick feeling and he misses the sensation when its gone, but doesn't say it.

Hannibal, one evening, tells him to bring his dogs over next time, and clothes for a few days so he doesn't have to worry about either.

“I thought you didn't like dogs.”

He's a little drunk, his head feels incredibly light and removed from the worries of his work while he watches Hannibal washing plates and glasses carefully, in the same way he handles the meat he cooks and then serves to them perfectly cooked... but these are things he doesn't want to think about now.

“I do not favor them, that is true. But for the sake of being practical, and as long as they remain in the garage, I am sure I will be able to abide their presence.”

Will remains silent for a long time, staring at the man's back, at the way the muscles flex under the soft and thin fabric of his shit. His body is warm when he puts his cheek against it, against the hardness of his spine and the softness of his tissues.

Hannibal stops moving, but doesn't turn around or says anything, he lets him do whatever he want; so Will remains there, barely touching him, but feeling his heartbeat, his blood flowing and his lungs breathing.

He's alive, they are both alive, those sounds are reassuring and Will feels like he could drift away if he let himself go, if he just relaxed completely and gave up on the grip he still has on the present moment. He could disappear in dreams where the monsters are left outside the door, because a much scarier and powerful creature inhabits them and protects him with claws and teeth. 

Will thinks, but it's a distant and blurred thought, that he shouldn't feel safe there, not with him, not like this: he shivers when Hannibal sighs and he hears his steady and peaceful heartbeat growing faster for a faint moment that is gone as suddenly as it happened.

But he wants nothing more than this, he wants to feel Hannibal on him, all around him, wants to touch him and be reassured by his presence.

The contact doesn't last long, he backs away after a while and looks at him like he's waiting for him to speak.

But Hannibal simply smiles and goes back to his work after telling him to go take a bath to relax his tired body.

Will manages to sleep six whole hours that night.

 

The body of the dead boy hangs from a tree, swinging left and right in the winter wind, snow all around him, making the dark clothes he's wearing look like an ink stain on a perfectly white page: there's blood on his forehead, long dried by the cold and covered in small ice crystals, but some on it pooled on the ground, bright red on bright white.

Will keeps staring, unable to look away, can barely listen to the people around him talking and moving: he looks at the blue lips on the dead boy, so similar to the ones of the girl in the bathtub, but much more desperate.

His face has nothing of that peaceful abandonment: this one fought for his life, tried hard to escape the embrace of death and was defeated; his body is a flag, a living testimony.

This time, there's no mistaking this crime for a suicide or an accident: Will can see a latent brutality in the way the boy has been beaten to punish him for his attempt to resist his fate. This man is willing to do anything to ensure that things will go as planned, that nothing will come between him and his victims, him and his mission.

He makes no mistakes, the strength of his need to kill pushes him further and further. He just can't stop and won't until he's done or caught.

The air is so cold, his cheeks are burning, his lungs are screaming, his body is protesting; and his mind fights to escape another immersion in that total darkness he knows awaits it. But Will bites his lips and grinds his teeth, moving on, forcing himself despite his self preservation instincts.

When he's left alone, he takes a moment to let the silence filter inside him before the cacophony of his empathy overwhelms his brain and his ears. He's shaking, and not only because of the temperature.

He never felt so much fear before, an ancestral terror of the unknown, of an evil he cannot comprehend and that he wants to run away from. But he closes his eyes and still lets it fill him, cover his own thoughts and replacing them with the ones of the dark entity he's chasing...

All he can feel is the sudden loss of air, the rope is around his neck, compressing his windpipe, chocking him, as it lifts him off the ground, higher and higher... his vision is clouded, he can barely see but... but even through the the black spots in his vision, he can still tell there's nothing under him, no one's holding the other side of the rope... he can't see... he can't see...

It's impossible, terror washes over his body, accelerates his death, air almost completely gone from his lungs, but he still tries to see, to catch a glimpse of what should be there, has to be there, the presence that is causing him so much pain... and yet... there's nothing... nothing...

Will comes out his trance and finds himself on his knees, hyperventilating and grasping the snow under him, his knuckles white and nails digging into his palms: he doesn't know what caused him to wake up so suddenly at first, but when he manages to calm down, after a few minutes where all he can do is trying to regulate his labored breathing and grasp reality once again, he realizes.

There's no one around him, the field is empty, all the FBI agents have gone far away to let him work his tricks in total privacy: there are no sounds, he's completely isolated from the rest of the world, cut out from any living thing.

There's no one around him, but he's not alone.

He can feel a burning stare fixated on back, the breath of something that doesn't feel human on his neck... he should turn around but his whole body is paralyzed, gripped by a terror that rushes through his veins like venom, that anesthetizes all his muscles but not his senses, because he's aware of everything, of every sound, no matter how small.

A branch cracking under invisible feet, something moving through the trees, a shadow out of the corner of his eye...

Will gets up slowly, hoping his legs will hold his weight, and then examines the forest that surrounds him and threatens to swallow him whole: he should run away now, before the thing hiding in the darkness gets him and hangs him up next to the dead boy that still swings in the wind.

Instead, his feet start following a path in the opposite direction, old and decaying and filled with putrescent dead things hidden under the snow: he doesn't dare to speak, to break the suffocating curtain of silence that presses down on him, and every time he makes a sound his nerves scream for him to leave that place and go back to safety. 

But something, or someone, pushes him on, slips into his head and persuades him to just keep walking.

Until he reaches a gate, rusty and blackened by years of exposure to the elements.

Will focuses on the gate for a long moment, on its complicate decoration, on the way it stretches beyond his line of sight. His breath is calm now, his mind is clear, but everything in his body screams against a danger he knows it's there, but that cannot be seen, that hides from him, but threatens his life anyway.

I'd be already dead if it wanted to kill me, he thinks, closing his eyes, it wants to show me something, whatever this thing is... it wants me to bear witness...

He's slow at opening his eyes again, and for a moment he's blinded by the whiteness of the snow...

Then he sees the small graveyard, with its ancient, blind and silent tombs, the little church behind it, a building about to fall apart; nobody has been there for a long time, he thinks while he walks through the graves, paying attention not to stumble upon the broken rocks.

The headstones are simple, corroded and unreadable: they look old, but it's impossible to tell because of the snow; the building that once was the church or maybe a convent, stands in front of him black and menacing, threatening him with its size, with the mysteries that he may find inside it, with the horrors that may lie in waiting in those rooms.

Will can still feel the presence around him, hovering on him, keeping him under control: he feels like a rabbit walking right into the lion's den with naivety and innocence, the perfect victim for a sacrifice. He'd laugh at the horror movies cliches if it weren't for the realization that this is not a movie: this is real, he's there, this is happening...

He almost falls when his feet hit something on the ground, and it takes him a few seconds to realize exactly what he's looking at, like his mind suddenly is trying to protect him from what he's seeing, despite having seen far worst.

Will licks his lips and his throat is suddenly really dry, while he keeps staring and staring at the old headstones used as an altar, surrounded of bones and skulls covered in blood and with another dead boy lying on it...

 -----

No matter how much time he has already spent in front of the fireplace, Will feels still cold, like he'll never be able to warm himself up again, not completely, that there'll always be a frozen spot into the core of his being.

He has stopped shaking at least, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees that scene again and his stomach clenches painfully; Abigail gently asks him if he wants another blanket, but Will shakes his head and sits up on the couch.

The girl doesn't say anything for a while, doesn't even try to touch him, just allows him to be aware of her presence, of the fast that she's there with him and has no intention of leaving.

“It wasn't the worst crime scene I had ever seen. It just felt incredibly wrong. Like it was a open wound into the tissue of reality and evil was oozing out of it.”

“I wasn't going to ask you anything...”

“I know.”

“What did it feel like? To sense evil, real evil?”

Will takes a deep breath and focuses on her hands, pink and clean and alive.

“Like looking into a mirror and seeing my own reflection twisted to the point where it's not me anymore, it's a grotesque monster that laughs at me with razor shaped teeth stained with blood. Like not recognizing yourself and catching a glimpse of terrors your mind refuses to accept.”

Abigail nods and caresses Winston's fur when the dog approaches them: he shouldn't be there, usually he wouldn't be allowed, but Hannibal has pushed all the rules aside for now.

“Sometimes I felt like that when I looked at my father. I knew who he was, I remembered how he was before he became the monster that killed all those girls. And then he was not the same man anymore, not the one from my childhood, the one I loved. Or maybe he had always been like that, but I just could not see it.”

Her voice is steady and calm, but in her eyes there's so much pain... Will brushes one of his fingers against her hand.

“I know. But this... this thing is far worst than your father. Of every killer I've ever tried to catch. It's something that slips under me and surrounds me, that drowns me so I cannot see it.”

“Maybe you just can't catch him. It wouldn't be your fault. You can't solve every murder, you can't ask too much from yourself.”

Will smiles and out of the corner of his eyes catch the glimpse of Hannibal looking at the two of them, a relaxed expression on his face, almost of pride to see them talking and drawing strength from one another while he takes care of both, while he supports them and makes sure they have everything they may need.

He takes a deep breath and manages to forget about the cold that grips his bones for a while.

“At least I have to try.”

 

Will sleeps with Hannibal that night, after an evening that dragged out and that felt too long, like time was stretching in front of him and never really moving forward. He feels better after dinner, finally able to give up completely and abandon himself on the bed in his room.

Alana calls him while he's laying down with his eyes closed and trying not to read too much into every sounds he hears around him, and for a moment he almost wants to refuse the call, but then the need to at least try to pretend that both his body and his mind haven't been badly abused by his day wins.

There's that worry in her voice when she asks him how he's doing, that always makes him feel small and weirdly exposed, like when he was a child and the parents of the others kids at school asked him about his mother and father: like he has to lie not be examined too closely. He tries to sound as normal as he can, to brush off the events of the day, but knows he's not fooling everyone. And finds himself wondering who called her to tell her what happened in the graveyard.

When Alana asks him if he's staying at Hannibal, Will can almost hear her sigh in something that could be relief at that idea that, at least, he'll not be alone that night, that he'll have someone around to keep him company. Or under control.

The conversation is over surprisingly quickly, with the woman wishing him a good night, reassured by his words, or maybe just by Hannibal's presence, and after the room is once again silent, he looks around and suddenly feels very, very isolated from everything, like there's a thin and invisible veil between him and the world all around him, something that lets everything pass through, but that traps him on his side, keeping him away.

Will closes his eyes and remember how cold it felt out there, for how long he had stared at the second dead body before finding the strength to go back and call for help: for a moment, he had the feeling of wanting to remain there, to fuse himself with the bloody corpse in front of him and find in its death the peace that keeps escaping him.

He felt chained to that scene, to its horrific beauty that called him like a moth to a flame; and now he's haunted by it, like there's a whisper in his ear and he can't stop trying to listen to it...

Hannibal doesn't comment on finding him already under the covers, waiting for him, sitting up and lying among the pillow like a statue. And Will doesn't say anything in return. But this silence is not as absolute, it's more bearable somehow, it slides on his body and seems to caress it gently.

The man doesn't change his routines for him and he's glad for that, because it instils a sense of normality in the scene that he needs; he reads in silence for a while while Will looks at him. 

This shouldn't be one of the few places I feels safe into, he thinks with a sad smile; sometimes he has the feeling of dancing on his own grave, of playing with a very sharp knife that could cut him in half if he dropped it or failed to control it.

But for now he still has a strong and safe hold on it; for now, he's the one who pulls the strings, though he cannot foresee what will be attached to them.

“You can talk to me about what happened today, if you wish.”

Hannibal's ability to read his deepest desires right from his heart surprises him every time, leaves him wondering what else and how much of him the man really knows about what hides inside the folds of his being. Will takes a deep breath.

“Are you going to try to psychoanalyze my reactions to it, Doctor?”

The man doesn't even look up from his book, he just keeps reading.

“If that is what you need from me, then I will.”

They stopped having sessions after beginning this... he doesn't know if the word relationship is right for them, and Will finds himself missing it sometimes: the appointments, Hannibal's voice guiding him through the darkest recesses of his mind, helping him exploring unmapped and secret roads. He simply misses that feeling of trust that now is founded on completely different pillars of support.

Because now... now there's so much Will knows, though he constantly tries to forget it: now he sees different sides of him, he can catch glimpses that before were carefully dissimulated by the man. Everyday he reminds himself that he should not trust a single word that comes out of his mouth, not one gesture he makes, that he should run as far as he can and never come back.

He never does because he doesn't want to: because at the end of the day, he can't remember ever feeling this safe and good. His guilt was silenced the moment he had kissed Hannibal in the half darkness of his office and accepted everything that came with it.

“You heard me talking about it with Abigail.”

“Abigail has her ways to trick you into revealing details of your work to her. She's clever and curious. But that doesn't mean you abandon the way you talk to her about it. You still try to protect her from the worst of it.”

Will remains silent for a while to gather the right words, takes a seep from the water glasses on the bedside and then turns again to face Hannibal, who, in the mean time, has closed his book and given him his whole attention.

“I didn't panic. I didn't scream, I just... stayed there for... for such a long, long time. I just couldn't look away or leave. I had the distinct feeling of a mysterious force keeping me in front of that makeshift pagan altar. It was so cold, and it was snowing again: I started to feel numb after a while, but I still couldn't move at all.”

“You risked hypothermia, but I am sure that now sounds like a very small price to pay to you. Were you able to discern anything useful about your killer during that time? Or from this crime scene?”

Will shakes his head softly.

“He likes to do it, he enjoys doing a good work, that's what he feels the most, a beaming pride. Like he's... trying to impress somebody or to prove he's capable. And he has a mission. Every crime scene has a reason behind, it must follow a certain order. But other than that, I... I just can't see. Something keeps me from seeing clearly.”

Hannibal nods; even though Will knows he recognize the difficult state he's in, he doesn't try to touch or comfort him in anyway: he's thinking about his words, about his description of the scene, and Will knows he probably took a look to the photos he brought along in the manila file that now rests in his room.

Will would like to be able to just slip into his mind, to see what he's imagining, to understand him better: but then he never takes the step towards it, maybe because he prefers to see him like this, a riddle he doesn't want to solve, somebody he wants to keep close and never look too closely at, because it'll take away that aura the surrounds him. Or maybe because he already knows the darkest parts of his soul and he wants to keep everything else a mystery unless the man himself decides to reveal it.

Hannibal's hand is so close to his, they could touch if one of them wanted, but Will feels surprisingly good like this, with an imperceptible distance between them that fuels an underlying need to get closer.

Right now, he needs his mind to focus on something that are not the nightmares that wait for him.

“He will kill again. He's just starting to get the taste for it. I wonder if he has a determined number of victims in mind or if he is... following a sudden inspiration.”

“I don't know. There's so much I cannot see or understand. I feel lost. Like I'm wandering in a very dark forest and I honestly don't know if I'll come out of it. Jack looks at me like I should have the solutions to every mystery in my pocket and when I'm as confused as he is...”

Will stops talking and finds that he doesn't mind the silence too much when the man's presence fills it and stretches around him until he feels wrapped in a cocoon that feels welcoming and comfortable despite its strangling tightness.

“I guess, sadly, all you can do is wait for more victims. But you are in no way a failure, Will. Your gift is marvelous, but it doesn't make you a clairvoyant or a magician.”

He barely smiles at that, but suddenly his body feels both relaxed and extremely tired, about to give up and fall asleep. Even though he can feels a subtle hint of manipulation behind every single one of those words, he just chooses to believe, to give in to that part of him that craves them.

“Sometimes I wish I was.”

“As we all do. We should sleep now, I think. Do you want me to keep the light on for a while?”

Will shakes his head and Hannibal turns the lamp off, making the room suddenly dark: his body his warm and heavy when it moves to press itself against his back, one arm resting on his side all the contact between them. He feels the ghost of a kiss he probably imagined on his neck.

It's enough to feel safe, to chase the residual cold from his body, to give him the feeling of being alive, he thinks.

Then he closes his eyes.

 -----

“The return of the Bloody Doctor?

Old Baltimore residents will probably still have in their memories the case of Edward Victor Manfreds, the terrible serial killer known as the “Bloody Doctor” or “Satan's Psychiatrist” that terrorized the city during the early '40s. After killing ten people, all former patients who had returned to their homes but that were still under his, in some cases unofficial, supervision, he was captured while he attempting to murder his eleventh, and executed right before the end of the war.

A dark and mysterious figure that precipitated the city in a crippling fear while he was at large, even after his capture he became known for his incredible calm, his luciferious grin and his persistent silence about his motivations.

Dr. Manfreds had directed for years a psychiatric hospital and had an impeccable reputation prior his arrest. What prompted him to commit his crimes, remains a mystery to this day.

Why are we bringing this up after all these years?

Right after his execution, a rumor started to run through the city: that the “Bloody Doctor” had sworn, right before his execution, to return one day to finish what he had started, because he just couldn't stand the idea of leaving a job incomplete.

And could it be possible for this rumor to be true?

The recent string of murders that shook us all because of their brutality seems to suggest it. The similarities are so many and so evident that a concerned citizen may ask himself why the police and the recently involved FBI are not investigating this possible lead. Perhaps they rely too much on the services of their “consultant” Will Graham?

Now, you may ask yourself: are you implying that these murders could have been committed by a ghost? Well, according to our sources inside the department, there are no evidenced whatsoever at the crime scenes, nothing at all. It's like the killer has never been there.

And the scene of the last two murders, are nothing less than the ruins of the abandoned asylum that Manfreds directed and that was dismissed after his arrest, not to mention that some of the victims physically resemble the old ones.

If not with a ghost, we are surely dealing with a copycat that knows Manfreds' murders in every detail, someone who also knows how not to leave traces of his passage.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to scare me using the legend of the Bloody Doctor: she had been there during that time and remembered the terror and the fear that overwhelmed the city.

Edward Victor Manfreds was a cruel, vicious and relentless murderer, one that remains mantled in an aura o horror. And, who knows, maybe his damned soul has finally returned to settle old unfinished business...”

\----- 

Will closes his laptop more forcefully than he had intended and stares at the half darkness of the room around him with an absent look in his eyes.

Freddie Lounds' words run through his brain, slide on his skin and he tries to shield himself from them, but they sink in and he just can't stop thinking about it.

Inside his mind, the idea that the answer could be just that, that it could really be so simple scares him.

As scares him the thrill he feels running through his veins at the thought.

Terrible images start appearing behind his closed eyes, plaguing his mind and filling him with a new terror, a new nightmare that grins at him with its teeth red with blood that drips on his skin and clouds his eyes.

He almost jumps up when Hannibal calls his name.

And dreams of shadows moving in the dark all around him that night.


End file.
